One of three novels under consideration as the next book. I’m not sure about this one, but that doesn’t mean much at three in the morning when the story kicks back into my brain again. I could write this one, have an outline planned, but there are two more in the mix that excite me more. I can multitask. Keep three books running at the same time. It’s a crap system, but it’s the only one I have at my disposal.
Nobody in the small market town where the target had buried himself for two years had any idea that a notorious criminal had been living quietly among them for the past three years.
Three weeks ago, the target had disappeared.
Just walked away.
Told no one where he was going.
The man with no name didn’t know where his target had gone, but he knew why he’d gone.
Boredom.
Simple as that.
He was here now, in the target’s adopted hometown. Putting himself in the target’s shoes. Walking the boring narrow streets. Studying the terraced house where he’d lived. The dismal industrial estate where he’d worked.
The target was a big city boy. Bright lights. Action. Plenty of money in his pocket, and, most importantly of all, he’d been someone.
A man to be reckoned with.
A player.
Suddenly, everything changed. He’d kept his liberty, but the price he’d paid was to be was stuck in a boring little town, in a boring little house and a boring little job. No wonder he’d made a break for freedom.
The man with no name had known from the outset that this would be a difficult job. He’d set the price high to reflect that difficulty. But he never allowed the prospect of failure to enter the equation. This target was a man of some importance. He’d given up some major underworld figures, provided evidence to ensure that a large number of men who’d previously been considered as untouchable were now slopping out in high security prisons.
Budgetary considerations would not apply. Not for a witness who had put so many of his previous comrades away.
The new identity and new life weren’t a problem. The man without a name had traced witnesses who’d thought themselves safe before. Successful operations and satisfied clients in every case.
If the target had made a break for it, certain facts were not in dispute. He would have funds at his disposal, probably dating from the time before his arrest. He would return to the life he knew best. And, he would change his appearance.
The target may have been bored; it didn’t mean he was stupid.
The man without a name knew where to start looking. The target’s first consideration would be to change his appearance. He would lose or gain weight, change the style of his hair, wear different clothes, but none of these changes would be enough if he wanted to return to the old life. The target would need plastic surgery. A lot of plastic surgery. That would leave a trail.
The man without a name sat on a hard bench in a boring little pub in the boring little town and thought about the next step. A young couple wandered in off the street, holding hands. They looked round the pub, grimaced, but evidently decided to stay. They split up, the girl heading towards the toilets, her companion to the bar.
It wasn’t a place for them. Not really. A scruffy pub, tired carpets, old yellowing plaster on the walls speckled with water spots, like the skin on the back of an old man’s hand.
The young man collected two glasses from the bar, wandered into the alcove where the man with no name was seated. He motioned to the bench on the opposite side of the scarred table, evidently asking permission to sit.
The man with no name scowled. He needed to think. Needed privacy.
‘Fuck off.’
The young man stopped abruptly, hands hovering over the table where he’d been about to place the glasses.
‘That’s not very nice.’
The seated man gave a thin smile. ‘Fuck off in a nice way then. Makes no difference to me, long as you leave.’
The young man looked at him for a moment, then walked away. He didn’t look back.
The man with no name sighed. He could have done without the attention, but his need for privacy was greater. If he felt a tinge of regret at the target’s inconvenient disappearance, he didn’t show it. He always enjoyed the difficult assignments best.
All his jobs amounted to the same thing in the end: a man or a woman had to die.
Some targets were more important than others.
Some were better guarded.
Some even considered themselves to be invincible.
They were wrong. No one could make himself or herself impregnable. Anyone could be killed.
Means and opportunity. That was all it took.
Which was the area in which his special talents proved so valuable to his clients. He alone had the track record to carry out the assignments deemed to be impossible. He alone could strip away the detail until only the solution was left behind. A solution that required only the right man to carry it out.
A man without conscience, prepared to suffer any pain, any discomfort, to carry out his plan.
A man utterly dedicated to his work. It wasn’t necessary to enjoy the act of killing another human being.
That was a bonus.
